


Whose Woods These Are I Think I Know

by mamishka



Category: Sherlock (TV), fawnlock - Fandom
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Fantasy, Fawnlock, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-20
Updated: 2013-01-20
Packaged: 2017-11-26 04:55:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,249
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/646783
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mamishka/pseuds/mamishka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is a fawnlock story. It is based off of a doodle that became a subfandom of the Sherlock fandom on tumblr. If you don't know what fawnlock is, I recommend you do not read any further as you'll probably just think I've taken complete leave of my senses. ;) It's the sort of thing that you have to come across and integrate into your life slowly. If you do, you will awaken to magic and silliness and playful whimsy. If you try to rush it or force it, you'll just think to yourself that Sherlock fandom has finally gone off the deep end. But we haven't. We're just being exceedingly silly, creative, and having some fun on the side. </p><p>Additionally it appears that my American concept of a cabin in the woods is not a very British sort of thing. But if you can accept that Sherlock is part deer then I guess you can deal with John Watson having a cottage in the woods. Let's just say that the Watson family was a bit eccentric?</p><p> </p><p>   <b>This work is privately owned. Recs and reviews receive never-ending thanks, but I ask that you do not post the actual contents elsewhere or use them without permission.</b></p>
            </blockquote>





	Whose Woods These Are I Think I Know

Quicksilver eyes studied the vast expanse of white snow that blanketed the forest before them, eyebrows above the expressive gaze twisted into an expression of barely repressed exasperation.

Winter came to the forest early this year, interrupting Fawnlock’s research into the various indigenous mushrooms that were to be found once the first frost had come. It had been an interesting and enjoyable project, the naming, cataloging, and, most of all, testing of the various fungi. He especially liked the ones that turned purple and green along the stems when broken and had spent many an afternoon and evening being thoroughly distracted by the feeling of his fur beneath his own hands and the way the stars would flow like water or run like ants by his will alone as they sparkled through the leafless branches above his head. 

In one most memorable experience, he recalled running through the woods as fast as he could and then coming to a full and utter stop while staring at a tree gleaming in an open glen beneath the bright light of the moon. In that instant he felt as if every tiny fragment of his body was alive and in motion, despite the fact that he was utterly and perfectly still. He knew, in that moment, that he and the tree were one and the same. That although they both stood still and rooted to the ground, behind the exterior of their skin and bark, their bodies were racing on a scale too small for the eye to see. Beneath their respective flesh and bark they were constantly in motion, brilliantly alive and active.

The best part of this specific course of research had been the obvious disapproval of his brother, especially when Fawnlock insisted that he needed to test certain mushrooms more frequently to quantify the effects they had upon his mind and body. After all, every time he ate them, they had a wholly different reaction than the one he was braced and prepared for. Fascinating. He had yet to have the same experience twice. They were like the snowflakes falling about him at this very moment – not a one of them alike. That was his theory at least. He had inspected no less than 16,382 snowflakes using a hunter’s owl eye and had found not one of them even remotely like another.

Of course there had been a few instances when perhaps his brother’s concerns were warranted. A few of the mushrooms he tested by eating had violently unpleasant side effects, one of which caused his body to seize up, his muscles locking as if they had been frozen. He nearly died from suffocation, his lungs unwilling to draw air inward. In this instance he was very fortunate that Mousy Hooper was assisting him. Otherwise he would not be standing here now, glaring at the vexing landscape before him. 

The snow was up to his knees now. Foraging for food was hard enough. Experimenting and completing his study was completely impossible.

This winter was, quite simply, intolerable!

With a huff, his breath clouding on the air, Fawnlock surged forward against the deep snow once more. He had been forging further and further a field from their domain in search of an area where hopefully the snowfall had been less deep and overwhelming. So far his quest had been unsuccessful. If anything, it seemed the snow here was even deeper than in his own forest. It had been days now without any work to do, anything new to study or to learn, no mysteries to unravel or puzzles to solve.

He was, in a word, _bored_.

His head twisted and turned as the direction of the wind changed, sniffing it thoughtfully before his whole body went stiff.

Smoke.

Ears flicked back and forth and his tail naturally raised itself, indicating to any others around the potential for danger close by.

Smoke? How could there be smoke in weather like this?

Fawnlock was no stranger to smoke and the fire that brought it. In fact, it was a forest fire caused by a careless human that killed his parents and brought him and his brother to this forest when he was only five four-seasons old. The memories were hazy now – a confusing mix of physical sensation and emotion. More than anything he could remember the heat and the fear, the choking smoke that filled the air and the surging wave of animals and birds fleeing the destruction of their home along with him and his brother. Moosecroft eventually had to carry his younger brother when Fawnlock became too tired and weak to run any further. He could still remember gripping tightly to his brother’s throat ruff, burying his face in its softness as he cried. Later there was great weariness of both the body and the mind along with Moosecroft trying to explain to Fawnlock why their parents were not with them in this new forest.

Of course he didn’t have to explain. Fawnlock knew very well the destructive power of fire and understood that the same flames that had engulfed and devoured their beautiful forest had likewise devoured their parents.

Naturally his brother felt it was his duty to take over as the potentate and protector of the family, namely Fawnlock, and the forest. It did not take Moosecroft long to claim guardianship over these new woods and make them their home. While the inhabitants of the forest accepted his rule over them, Fawnlock never did. He missed the brother who was his friend. This new being that Moosecroft had become was not someone he knew any more, and he chafed under the constant rules and restrictions. 

These woods were remote and deep enough that humans came to them rarely, but still they came. While his brother always forbade him from inspecting, studying, or even approaching humans, Fawnlock naturally did the exact opposite. When chided for being rebellious and disobedient, he always lifted his chin high and countered that if one were to survive and defeat an enemy, then one needed to know their foes even better than their friends. 

All humans were dangerous and not to be trusted. But some were more dangerous than others. The ones that came with the cold black sticks were the worst and Fawnlock learned early on that he could not face or fight them head on. But there were other ways to defeat them. Instead he used his superior knowledge of the forest, his superior senses, to follow and track them. With silent and stealthy feet he stole into their camps in the dark of night and stole their cold, hard sticks that issued fire and death. He nimbly climbed up trees and made off with the food that they kept tied up high to deter bears.

He always stayed downwind of them, even though he knew their senses were blunted and primitive, unable to smell him as they tracked their prey with the same cunning tactic. He used rocks and birds to warn animals ahead whenever one of these humans pointed the black sticks at them and narrowed their eyes in concentration. The warning was always given right at the moment their curled finger began to pull on the curved bit of metal, their intended victims bursting into flight just before the tiny hard rock could strike and penetrate their bodies.

It pleased him to no end when he was able to so easily fool and frighten these human invaders. It pleased him even more that his brother had to grudgingly admit that Fawnlock’s forbidden antics were, in fact, making the forest safer with each passing season. It was becoming known as the ‘haunted’ forest for all the things that kept going mysteriously missing and the scary and wholly unnatural sounds that would emanate from the trees. (Fawnlock used his rich deep voice to great and disturbing effect at times) In a less superstitious vein, it was also known as a forest that was not worth hunting in. Prey was scarce and unnaturally canny and no hunter wanted to waste their time in a forest that gave up no game for their sport.

But now, here, in this unfamiliar wood, in this impossible season, came the smell of smoke.

Fawnlock could not honestly say what drove him toward the scent – whether it was the urge to protect his home from humans and their fire or if he was simply dreadfully, impossibly, desperately bored and in need of something, _anything_ that might be new and different and _interesting_. Even if it was a human…

*****

John had to confess that it was rare that his sister ever had a good idea but this? This was a _very_ good idea.

He had come back from Afghanistan tired, sore, and despondent. His shoulder ached from a bullet that had gone through it and his leg ached for no reason whatsoever as far as anyone could tell.

He came back to London, craving the hustle and the bustle of the city but found that instead of reinvigorating him and helping him settle back into civilian life, it just made things that much worse. There was nothing here for him. Nothing to do, no one he could talk to, and the fact that he was constantly surrounded by people doing things that seemed utterly pointless and completely trivial made him feel all the more alone and useless. 

Everything was in excess of what was needed, nothing was interesting or relevant, and the skills that he had were of no use any more, his injuries giving him nothing better than tedious locum work dealing with people who had no idea of the meaning of pain and suffering as they came in complaining about their little aches and colds.

So when Harriet sent him a phone with a note saying, “Keep in touch” and a set of directions to the cottage their parents had built out in the middle of nowhere, the first genuine smile since he had returned broke over his features.

That tiny cottage out in the woods had been one of his most favorite places in the world when he was a child. He always looked forward to going there, usually with his father, during school breaks and vacations. It was there, long before he joined up with the army, that he learned what it meant to be strong and self-sufficient. With no running water and no electricity, days were often spent just taking care of the basics. Fires had to be built, wood had to be chopped, water had to be fetched and carried, gardens had to be tended. 

Every day was full of things that had to be done and on the days when they were free of chores they explored and fished and read books and played games. His father had given him a penknife and taught him how to whittle and over the years John had become quite good at carving. It was one of the pastimes that he missed over in Afghanistan. Wood was too scarce there for him to whittle the long hours of waiting away.

As much as he enjoyed the hustle and the bustle of the city, he found great solace and pleasure in the simple and focused life of the forest. The work was hard, but the rewards were great.

The wintertime had both its challenges and respites. The hardest part was keeping warm. Wood had to be chopped and brought in to dry daily just to keep the fire burning and the cottage warm. On the other hand, fetching water only required John to step out of the cottage and shovel some fresh snow into a bucket and carry it inside to melt. Additionally, the icebox was easy to keep food cool and unspoiled by packing it with snow and ice from outside.

Bringing food in had been the hardest part. While his father kept a rifle at the cottage for protection and taught John how to use it, he was adamant that it was only used in emergencies. The animals of the forest were off limits for hunting. As a result they tended to eat a lot of vegetables and as much fish as they could catch. Since he was packing in for at least a month it was quite the haul. Once John had managed to drag the heavily laden sled with supplies to the cottage, his legs had been shaking and his arms trembling. 

He hadn’t felt so alive in _months_.

It wasn’t exciting or adventurous, but it was all-consuming work just surviving from day to day. There was foraging and fishing to supplement what he brought in with him, endless cups of brewed tea and when there was time, he whittled peacefully, listening to old records on an antique gramophone that had been handed down from generation to generation in the Watson family. He delved deeply into the massively packed shelves of hardcover tomes left behind by his father. Most of them were battered and well worn but all of them had been treated with care and love. They were his only companions on long quiet days and sleepless nights. They were well-known and much beloved friends.

Today he had taken the time to cut down and split several days worth of wood, bringing it inside to dry and start aging. He was grateful for the fact that there had been a large stash of very old and dry wood when he arrived. It definitely made up for the enormous amount of cleaning he had to do to get the place back into shape.

It was snowing again, but inside it was cozy and warm as he settled himself in front of the wood burning stove with a blanket over his lap. Thoughtfully he studied the piece of wood in his hands, looking for the animal that might dwell within it as the candles flickered about the cottage interior, flashing over the blade of his penknife as he began to carve.

*****

When Fawnlock reached the place from which the smoke was emanating he stood there, stock still save for his ears, which flicked back in forth in confusion.

He had never seen anything like it in all his life!

He was familiar with the shelters made by the humans who invaded his forest. Strange things, rounded like giant turtle shells, but soft like skin. They were sometimes rough and sometimes slick to the touch, but thin and feeble barriers to anything that truly wanted to get to what was inside of them. They were pathetic structures compared to the massive size and majesty of this! This shelter was made from the trees of the forest, stripped of branches and stacked into an impenetrable wall on four sides and on top. He circled the entire structure once, studying it intently.

Smoke rose lazily from a strange sort of spout at the top of the structure and there were openings from which light emerged despite the fact that no light should be able to exist within such a creation. His nose wrinkled as he slipped in close and cautiously peered into one of these openings, his eyes opening wide at what he saw.

Tiny little fires on the ends of sticks were scattered throughout the space, creating a warm flickering glow to fill the interior. But more exciting than that were all the strange and wondrous looking things that were inside! Looking into this cave-like creation was not unlike looking into another season. The world outside was white and stripped bare of color, but inside it was spring, summer, and fall all in one. There were rich russets and reds, warm browns, bright greens and soothing deep blue. Colors and patterns exploded across the floor like a strange and mysterious field of flowers. Inexplicable large objects filled the space and often were in turn filled themselves with an assortment of more mysterious and unrecognizable things.

Fawnlock forgot why he had come in the first place. He utterly forgot about smoke and fire, he forgot about humans and the danger they represented. He forgot about the forest and the cold and most wonderfully of all he completely and utterly forgot about being bored.

Silver-gray eyes narrowed at the closest thing to him, a line of small objects along the edge of this opening and after a moment he realized that they were tiny little animals. Not alive – they were never alive – but there was no doubting what they were. He could recognize bears and deer, rabbits and squirrels, and mixed amongst the familiar were animals he had _never_ seen before.

He couldn’t help it. He couldn’t stop himself. Fawnlock surged forward for a closer look, determined to climb in through the opening, only to be startled and brought to a sudden and painful stop as his nose and brow smacked into an invisible wall between him and the space filled with so many fascinating and new things. He jerked back in surprise and rubbed his sore nose, looking up in annoyance as he tried to understand what stopped him from coming inside… and came face to face with bright blue eyes and an equally surprised face of a human.

‘ _Moosecroft is going to kill me_ ,’ he thought to himself. ‘ _Unless this human does it first…_ ’

*****

For a moment John wasn’t sure who was the more surprised of the two of them - himself, or the strange looking man-deer thing standing outside of his window, rubbing his nose and looking decidedly peeved.

Both of them opened their eyes wide and jumped back, but the deer-man vanished from sight first, making John wonder if he hadn’t just imagined the whole thing. Cabin fever? Already? He shook his head to try to clear it, but he knew what he saw. Silver eyes and a shock of dark hair, human features with strange markings, but the ears and antlers of an ungulate. 

He stood there, stock still for a moment before hastily dragging on his coat and gloves, grabbing his battery powered lantern and opening the front door, taking a step outside and looking around. The wind tousled his hair and snow fell down thick and fast around him as he waited for his eyes to adjust to the darkness.

“Hello?”

The deep snow made moving around silently impossible and in the silence of the falling flakes he heard the sounds of frantic fleeing off to his right and turned the lantern in that direction.

“Wait!” He couldn’t say what made him call out to the creature, let alone why he thought it would understand or listen, but listen it did and understand it must have, because the odd deer-man not only stopped but flicked an ear back in John’s direction before cautiously turning his head to stare at him.

What struck John immediately was the intelligence in those eyes. This was no dumb animal. This was no clever animal either. This was something with an intelligence to match and perhaps even rival his own. He could see the emotions and sentient thoughts fly over the creature’s features - fear, uncertainty, stubbornness, determination, bravery. The deer-man’s eyes stared at John intently, his body tight and braced for action. It was only now that John noticed the sharpness of the horns atop the creature’s head and realized that if it wanted to it could possibly hurt John quite badly with the pointed tips. Slowly John put down the lantern and held his hands out in a peaceful gesture that he could only hope that creature would understand.

“Don’t be afraid. I’m not armed. I won’t hurt you.”

The deer-man snorted and looked almost affronted by John’s words but did nothing and said nothing in response.

John couldn’t say what possessed him that night. He was enjoying the quiet and the solitude of the woods, but perhaps the cottage was a bit too solitary. Life in Afghanistan was hard, but even when out on patrol or a mission he still had his platoon and his mates. Out here there was nothing but the snow and the woods, the books and his own thoughts to keep him company. He hadn’t realized it, but this was the one thing he missed. Something unexpected. Something new. Something exciting and possibly risky and dangerous. As such, John lifted up his lantern once more and called out, “You’re welcome to come in and visit if you like…” and with that he turned and headed back into the cottage.

It was totally insane, leaving his door open on a freezing cold night to invite in a potentially dangerous, wild animal… man… creature… thing. 

It was the most ridiculous thing he had ever done… and he had invaded Afghanistan.

Slowly John folded himself down into a chair and waited to see what would happen…

*****

Fawnlock stood in the snow uncertainly, his curiosity warring with his brother’s warnings that all humans were dangerous and evil and to be avoided at all costs.

After years of following humans that ventured into their forests, Fawnlock had begun to learn their language. He was by no means fluent - after all, he could only listen and had no one to practice with. But he had always been brilliant with languages. He could understand all of the creatures of the forest and talk directly with most of them, his ability to mimic uncanny. Humans were harder, less direct, but he could understand enough of their tongue to know that the man with eyes the color of the sky at twilight had asked him to wait and told him not to be afraid (that was what made Fawnlock snort – he was very much not afraid!) and had now clearly invited him inside.

And oh how he wanted in! His hands and nose were twitching at the very thought of sniffing and touching all those strange and mysterious things with impunity. 

The human looked harmless. He was small for the male of his species and looked round and soft. He moved with a limp that suggested he was injured, but he stood steadily which suggested that it was an injury of the mind not the body. But nature had taught Fawnlock that looks could be deceiving. Many dangerous and deadly things come in small, colorful, innocent looking packages and Fawnlock had the feeling that despite the gentle tone and harmless exterior, the human that he had just met was anything but harmless.

Yes, it was dangerous, he mused, but when had that ever stopped him before? 

With a soft huff, Fawnlock pushed his way through the snow, ears pricked forward in excitement.

Upon entering the strange abode, his first action was to find where the human was. He found him seated upon one of those strange objects he had been pondering the purpose of before, noting how the object yielded to the human’s weight. It looked soft and comfortable, like sitting upon a dense nest of leaves and grasses. His ears flicked back and forth constantly, his nose twitching as he took in all of the smells he could, trying to deduce which ones were coming from which objects.

Once assured that the human intended to remain seated and leave him be, Fawnlock realized that the ground beneath his feet was not cold but warm and soft. In fact the entire temperature of this enclosure was warm as spring, though the cold blowing in through the entrance was quickly dissipating the heat. His toes dug into the pile of the strange square of fur beneath his feet, the texture and color of it nothing like an animal’s pelt. The furs were layered, one on top of another, large rectangle shapes of different colors and patterns that sometimes seemed to mimic plants and flowers found in nature and at other times were wholly unfamiliar yet still pleasing shapes and designs. 

He slowly began to prowl about the place. He headed over to one area that contained strange objects that smelled at once musty and earthy and strangely appealing. He reached out with curious hands and pulled one of the tightly wedged objects out, dropping it in surprise when it fell apart in his grasp. It crashed onto the floor, spilling open like over-ripe fruit.

Bending down Fawnlock realized that it had not, in fact, broken apart, but was made up of many thin bits, like leaves stacked into careful piles. He lifted the object up again with two hands and carefully began to flip these leaves, noting the strange markings on them and studying the way that they were bound together.

Fascinating!

“It’s called a book.”

His head jerked up and over toward the human, but the man was still sitting where he was, his hand pointing at the object.

“Book.”

Fawnlock stared at him, ears flicking back and forth before he echoed in his deep rumbling voice, “Book.”

It was the human’s turn to look startled, but instead of displaying fear or shock he looked pleased. He smiled instead and nodded. “Yes, book. We tell stories and put them into books so we do not forget them.”

Fawnlock’s ears flicked forward, brow creasing before he asked uncertainly, “Story? In book?” his fingers stroking over the letters questioningly.

It would seem that not only was his human speech understandable, but actively exciting to the man. He nodded his head emphatically and repeated, “Yes! Books are full of stories!”

Lifting the ‘book’ to his nose, Fawnlock breathed in deeply. He doesn’t understand yet how books are full of stories. They seem to be full of strange white leaves as far as he can tell, but he was eager to learn more. They smelled good to him. A little of trees and dust and fur. Natural. Good. Right. As he turned the leaves he noticed that the markings were regular in size and pattern and that many of them repeated again and again. Frowning, he pondered the matter before tracing the markings and asked, “Markings are story?”

The human’s eyes widened, his fingers curling over the surface they were resting against, his head bobbing before he clarified, “Yes, they are words that are written.” 

The look of excitement and wonder in the human’s eyes reflected Fawnlock’s own feelings at this amazing discovery, though he did his best to appear aloof and disinterested. He wouldn’t want the human to think he was easily impressed or diverted by all these wondrous objects and things. No, that would be a dangerous weakness to reveal to one who has, until this moment, been born of the race of his enemy.

He put the ‘book’ down, for now, and continued to touch, sniff, and study everything. As much as he enjoyed exploring the strange place, he found he enjoyed the human’s reactions to his exploration. He was particularly intrigued by a strange object that was hard and clear like the barrier in the opening he tried to pull himself through earlier. To his surprise the human’s reaction was almost threatening, his body tensing and his voice growing sharper. “Careful…” 

One ear flicked toward the human. He understood the word, but not the meaning. The thing in his hand looked exceptionally harmless. He studied it, turning it from side to side. It reminded Fawnlock of ice except for the fact that it wasn’t cold. His gaze dropped to a bit of the floor that wasn’t covered in ‘furs’. What would happen if he were to drop it? Would it break like ice even if it weren’t ice?

“Don’t you even _think_ of dropping that,” the human rumbled, his tone angry and more threatening now, reminding Fawnlock of when Moosecroft would tell him not to do something.

So, of course, dropping it was precisely what Fawnlock did.

He was pleased when it shattered, confirming his suspicions.

The human jumped up to his feet, startling Fawnlock, who dropped his head lower and shifted his stance to prepare for an attack.

He was less pleased when in doing so he stepped on a piece of the broken object and felt it pierce the skin of his right foot. Hmmmm. Harder and sharper than ice, apparently. 

“Oh for….” The human’s tone was frustrated and exasperated, a cadence that Fawnlock was intimately familiar with. He and Moosecroft often conversed in such tones with one another. The man turned and stomped off, not toward Fawnlock but through a darkened opening leading to another area of the ‘cave’, leaving Fawnlock confused and uncertain. This confusion was amplified by the fact that when the man returned he was smaller than before. No, not smaller – thinner. It was if had had stripped off his winter coat of fur? He was also carrying something that smelled strange and slightly acrid. The human settled back down and gestured to the object across from him, ordering, “Sit!”

Fawnlock’s ears flattened to the back of his head. He didn’t like to be ordered about. He held his ground and bared his teeth. Those blue eyes lifted once more, the anger and irritation on the human’s face melting away as he studied the expression on Fawnlock’s face and then glanced down at the blood slowly spreading onto the floor about his wounded foot. Gesturing once more to the chair, the man asked this time. 

“Please? Sit down?”

Fawnlock waited a moment longer before limping over and flopping down. The strange object was infinitely more comfortable than any bed of leaves or clover that Fawnlock had ever lain in. He was so taken with it that he forgot the sharp object in his foot for a moment, his fingers running over the texture of the fur. So strange – not fur at all but more like those domed shelters, but nicer. Softer and textured and strangely soothing.

The human’s voice interrupted his reverie.

“Give me your foot.”

Fawnlock stared at the man, abruptly suspicious and untrusting.

Sighing softly the man pointed toward himself and said, “John.” Then he pointed his finger at Fawnlock and tilted his head in a questioning manner.

It took a few moments but finally he answered the man. “Fawnlock.”

The man, no… John. John put his hand on his leg, the one that had troubled him earlier and seemed to be troubling him now, rubbing the covering there. He spoke slowly this time, as if he thought that would help Fawnlock understand him better.

“Okay…. Fawnlock?” By his intonation, clearly he thought the name was a bit odd, but he nodded in acceptance before continuing. “I’m a doctor. I know that you can understand some of the things I say, but don’t know if you know that word or what it means. A doctor is someone who helps other people when they are hurt or in pain. I would like to help you. I would like to bandage your foot.” 

He reached down and put a brown ‘fur’ on his leg and then gestured toward Fawnlock’s foot. “Will you let me help you?” His expression was open and easy to read. He was still angry with Fawnlock for breaking the not-ice thing, but he also looked concerned. A human? Concerned about an ‘animal’? Why should he care? It was not as if he were responsible for the injury.

Fawnlock sat and thought. Lifting his foot up, he studied it for a moment before pulling the sharp object out of it with a soft hiss of pain. His first course of action would be to lick the wound clean. He would then pack it with some medicinal herbs and wrap it with tall grass, but he doesn’t have any of those things here. He lifted his gaze to the man who calls himself John and then gingerly extended his leg toward the human, watching him warily the whole time.

*****

John waited until the injured foot was placed definitively on the towel covering his thigh before he so much as reached for it. He could feel the suspicious glower that Fawnlock was subjecting him to, the strange creature’s eyes flinty and slitted as he watched John’s every move, muscles tensed in preparation of pulling away at the slightest hint of threat.

After he fetched his kit John had forced his anger to slowly drain away. He realized that he would get nowhere with this creature if he was agitated and hostile. It wasn’t easy though. The vase that Fawnlock deliberately smashed, and it was clearly done deliberately, was one that John had given to his mother for Christmas. It had been the first gift that he had bought for her with his own money and his mother had cherished that vase and used it to the exclusion of all others. Overly sentimental or not, it meant a great deal to him and when this creature eyed it like some sort of experiment, he wasn’t able to stop the hardness and military command that slipped into his voice.

Which was apparently the wrong thing to do because with a look of utter defiance and rebellion, the deer-man stared John straight in the eye as he deliberately dropped the precious vase. A soft chuff of laughter escaped him at the realization that this strange creature seemed to have very human reactions. At the sound, the limb beneath his hands jerked away slightly. In response, John tugged on it firmly and flashed Fawnlock a warning look before arching the foot back to better examine the cut.

In an ideal world, he would want to stitch the gash up. It’s deep and jagged, but John suspected that if he were to try to put a needle in Fawnlock’s instep, he would receive an antler in his belly for thanks. Instead he opened up a few disinfectant swabs and gave thanks for the fact that the deep snow has left Fawnlock’s feet surprisingly clean and free of dirt and debris. 

“This is going to hurt,” he warned, eyes meeting Fawnlock’s steady gaze as he gestured down with his chin at the injury. He had no way of knowing if the creature understood him, for there was no reaction to his words this time. His tongue swiped over his lips nervously as he started carefully cleaning the wound. 

Save for a slight tensing of his foot, Fawnlock doesn’t react and John finds himself breathing a sigh of relief.

Working carefully, John quietly ruminated over the events of the evening so far.

From the moment Fawnlock entered the cottage, John watched his every move intently as the strange deer-man explored. He did his best to sit utterly still and to be as unthreatening as possible, all the while taking in the extraordinary vision before him

How this creature was not suffering from serious frostbite, he had no idea. Even now as he tended to Fawnlock’s foot he could find no sign of damaged tissue. Naked save for the hair on his head, a fur ruff about his neck and shoulders, and a thick patch of fur covering his genitals, the deer-man amazingly appeared to be unaffected by the bitterly cold temperature outside. Very strange.

The unusual coloring of Fawnlock’s skin also intrigued John. His body was mottled with spots and stripes, some of which were natural but others of which were clearly some sort of tattoo art, though whether the marks were permanent or temporary John could not tell for certain. But he definitely had body art and adornment upon his figure and face. This, even before he proved his intelligence by both speaking and understanding John’s words, had given even greater credence to John’s belief that Fawnlock was a sentient being. But it stood in the face of everything that he knew about human development and evolution. How could something, a descendent from the same ancestry as his, have gone this long hidden and undiscovered?

He cleaned out the wound carefully and then, after drying it off, pulled out a tube of super glue. The original purpose of this was for field surgery after all, and he couldn’t think of anything else to use that wouldn’t allow the wound to split apart once Fawnlock put pressure on it. Pinching the skin together, he judiciously applied the glue and waited for it to harden. 

His eyes flickered up to Fawnlock’s face. The look of wariness the creature’s face was now gone, replaced with one of deep reflection. It would seem that the deer-man cannot fear anything for long – his innate sense of curiosity would not allow it. In turn, John allowed his gaze to roam over his frame. 

Fawnlock, though long and thin, moved with the grace and assurance of a young adult. If John were to judge by human standards, he would estimate the creature being somewhere between 25 and 30 years of age. He was clearly a mature adult. This was evidenced by the fact that despite Fawnlock’s obvious excitement and interest, he moved through the cottage slowly and methodically, studying everything intently rather than rushing from object to object to object. He picked things up, turning them about in his hands, eyes narrowed, brows pinched together in concentration, ears flicking back, nose twitching intently. He used all of his senses to try to deduce the purpose of each thing he examined – sniffing objects, touching them, staring at them, and putting them through simple physical tests to see what they were made of and what purpose they might serve.

Once the glue was dry and held the gash shut, John gently slathered the injury with Neosporin and then put a thick pad of gauze over the entire area. Carefully he wrapped the pad with a roll of gauze, doing his best to keep it evenly thin so it would not be annoying or painful to walk on.

“I know it’s pointless to tell you to keep this dry, what with it snowing and all outside. I’d give you a boot or something to wear, but I doubt you’d keep that on for more than a minute, seeing as you don’t do the whole clothing thing. God, do you have fleas? I didn’t even think about that. Hope not. I don’t have anything here to deal with that if you do. But it’s winter; they’re probably either dead or in hibernation mode. After all, it’s not like you have that much fur for them to settle down in…”

He knew he was babbling but the quiet was stretching out a little too much and he always felt more comfortable talking to his patients while he worked. He hoped that perhaps the sound of his voice, which he’d been told before was quite soothing and reassuring, might make Fawnlock more comfortable with the whole proceeding. But of course that was ridiculous. Fawnlock wasn’t human and doesn’t speak more than broken English. He would have no experience with doctors or hospitals or waiting rooms, let alone bedside manners. In fact, by the way his ears were flicking back and forth and the bemused expression on his face, he probably thought John was some sort of nut or something, prattling on endlessly like he was a, ah, okay, well, that was enough of that.

Drawing his hands away, he studied his work for a moment before nodding with satisfaction. “Okay, I think that should hold you for now. How does it feel?”

*****

Most of the words out of John’s mouth were meaningless, despite the fact that Fawnlock was listening to them very intently. But he didn’t need to understand the language spoken in order to understand John. This human, for whatever reason, cared. His hands were gentle and tender in their ministrations. Even though he was somewhat uncertain and nervous, his rambling voice betraying that fact, his hands were steady and soothing. He worked methodically and knowledgably. A healer, it would seem. This must be what he meant by this word ‘doctor’. Though he used nothing that Fawnlock had ever seen used before, he managed to close the wound and wrap it better than any tall grass could ever have wrapped.

The expectant look on his face told Fawnlock that he was awaiting a response on his work as a healer. Drawing his foot back, he studied the wrapping about the injury, flexing his toes back and forth before he placed both feet on the ground once more and stood up.

The down side to all this unseasonable warmth was that it had returned sensation once more to his extremities. If he had been outside in the snow, only the scent of blood would have alerted him to the injury. The cold would have kept his feet comfortably numb, thus rendering the injury painless. But now, in this place of all seasons, the wound throbbed when he put his weight on it. 

Fawnlock’s nose wrinkled in displeasure as he took a tentative step. It hurt! But he didn’t dare show weakness, no matter how kind the human might appear. All of his instincts insisted upon that fact, so he forced himself to bear his full weight when he would have preferred to limp. 

The human breathed out a sigh of relief and rose up to his feet as well, giving Fawnlock a wide berth as he headed toward the entrance. 

“Looks like you’ll be okay then. I’m just going to close this door now if you don’t mind. It’s getting damn cold in here...”

Fawnlock’s heart stuttered as John swung an object made of wood to close off the entranceway. Once more he lowered his head and let out a warning growl that caused John in turn to freeze and then slowly turn about. Once more his hands showed themselves, palms up in what Fawnlock was beginning to sense was a gesture of submission, like showing one’s throat. The human’s voice was low and slow as he tried to reassure Fawnlock.

“This,” he noted, pointing at the object that had closed off the entrance, “is a door. It is easily opened like this.” He slowly reached out and grabbed a knot in the wood, his wrist turning and then his arm pulling and once more the entrance was opened. He then reversed the gesture, closing it off once more. Stepping back and away, he beckoned Fawnlock over and pointed to the knot in the wood.

Slowly, bearing through the discomfort, Fawnlock approached, his eyes fixed upon John before he reached out with one hand and grasped the knot. It wasn’t wood, he realized belatedly, but something cold and hard, like the black sticks that hunters carry, only closer to the color of the sun and with a different scent. 

Slowly he repeated the gestures that John performed for him and opened up the entrance. He repeated the action again and again, staring at the golden material that connected the ‘door’ to the walls of the space. It only took seconds for him to understand the function of this door and the value of it. Door keeps the cold out. Door keeps predators and invaders out. Door keeps the warmth in. Door functions like book functions. 

Pleased with this deduction, he pointed toward the juncture where door met wall and announced to John, “Like book.” At the look of confusion on the human’s face, Fawnlock placed his hands together and mimicked the opening and closing of the book before pointing toward the door once more.

“Ah! Yes, just like the book! A book and a door both are hinged.”

Fawnlock pondered this word before leaning over to touch the cold sun-colored material. “Hinged.”

“Close enough,” John confirmed before limping toward the wall filled with books. He looked through them for a long time before choosing one and taking a seat close to the large black object with a fire burning within its belly. He leaned over and patted another colorfully patterned object next to him, which caused Fawnlock to tilt his head to one side in bemusement.

John must have arrived at some sort of realization that resulted in embarrassment because his cheeks became suddenly red. How curious. Or perhaps he was too close to the fire. Humans are often not as cautious as they should be. Clearing his throat, John gestured to the object. “Sit?”

Ahh. That Fawnlock understood. Crossing over slowly, he eyed the surface next to John and then the fire. In the end he chose something a little further away that must be for sleeping, for it was soft and long, just perfect for stretching out upon, which Fawnlock did, his head conveniently propped against the raised bit at one end, like a fallen tree stump only infinitely softer. This way he could keep an eye on both the human, just in case this was all some elaborate trap.

John huffed out an amused sigh and opened the book. It was clear after a moment that he was about to tell a story. Not one that he knew by heart, as Fawnlock would, but one that the book told him through this strange thing called writing. 

Fawnlock was both intrigued and vexed. His understanding of the human tongue was not sufficient to understand what was being said, though he recognized many words such as ‘forest’ and ‘trees’ and ‘birds’ and other terms that he had heard from humans before. His ears pricked forward as he determined, after careful attention, that the story the human was telling him wasn’t a myth or a story proper. Not the sort his parents used to tell him when they were putting him to bed, or that others would tell for the sake of entertainment. It was a learning story – a story about the nature of the world, about facts and things and how they exist and what they are. A story of knowledge. If only he could understand more of it!

The bed beneath him was soft and yielding, which was very pleasant after the long days and nights he had spent walking and curled up in cold alcoves and simple shelters. The fire, which he had assured himself after much study was carefully contained within the belly of the un-living black beast, with no ability to escape, was making him as warm and drowsy as a puddle of sunlight on a warm spring day. He closed his eyes, the better to listen to the ‘story’, of course.

John’s voice was pleasant. It had a warm, slightly rough quality to it that made Fawnlock think of the ‘fur’ beneath his fingers. It had texture. It was interesting and new and pleasing. This man, this John, and this place where he lived… was all… very pleasing. Very pleasing indeed…

*****

Of all the books in the cottage, John chose David Attenborough’s “Life on Earth” to read to his most unusual guest. He realized that a book about nature, about forests and the animals therein, would probably be of more interest to Fawnlock than any novel he might choose. There were so many wonderful books he could have picked – The Three Musketeers, The Hobbit, Frankenstein, Grimm’s Fairy Tales – but after a moment of introspection he realized that the simple fact that Fawnlock was not human would make any such stories utterly meaningless to him. He quite simply did not have the background to relate to the people or places depicted within. With a nature book, there was at least a chance that Fawnlock could understand and enjoy some of it.

It felt strangely nice to be reading aloud to an attentive audience. His eyes flickered off the page on occasion to find Fawnlock listening closely, ears straining forward, a scowl descending upon his features until John started reading once more. After a while he stopped checking, assured of his interest and attention until he heard a soft rumbling.

Glancing up, his eyebrows rose as he found his guest had fallen asleep. Head tilted back upon the armrest of the couch, Fawnlock was ever so softly snoring, the sound like a low contented growl. His injured foot had been propped on the opposing armrest, his long frame totally relaxed.

John quietly closed the book and got up to his feet, uncertain of what he should do precisely. It certainly wasn’t in his agenda today to have a guest spend the night. Particularly when the guest in question wasn’t even human. But if Fawnlock felt safe enough in John’s presence to fall asleep then John supposed that likewise he should be safe enough to do the same. 

After a moment of hesitation he picked up a quilt his mother had made and draped it carefully over the deer-man, half expecting him to jolt awake and attack.

But Fawnlock did no such thing, a testament perhaps to just how cold and tired he had been upon his arrival at the cottage.

Studying the sleeping creature on his couch, John blew out a quiet breath before padding softly about the room, blowing out the candles and lanterns until only the fire from the stove cast a warm flickering glow over the room. Pausing for a moment by the couch, John’s hand hovered over the creature’s head, fingers curling into his palm instead of touching the dark tousled curls below. A smile touched his lips as he considered his most unexpected guest. Of all the company that could have come calling, this was the most astonishing… and probably the most welcome at this juncture of his life.

As he limped off to his own bed, John found himself hoping that his strange visitor would still be there come morning…

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to noncanonical for Brit-picking and Earthfirefly for beta reading. :)
> 
> Title stolen from Robert Frost.


End file.
